


Again

by eccentricities_of_kitties



Category: Original Work
Genre: Dogs Fighting, Murder via knife
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-09
Updated: 2017-04-09
Packaged: 2018-10-16 19:11:59
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 520
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10577715
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/eccentricities_of_kitties/pseuds/eccentricities_of_kitties
Summary: A dream I keep having.





	

When I was young I had two dogs; both were bitches; both Alphas. Family dogs, loving one. The day came that they One, sitting on the sofa with me was laid on her front, the other sprawled out on the rug. They made cold eye contact, staring at each other with the seemingly sudden realisation that they shared the sheerest of hatred and needed the other to be ended. I’d seen dogs fight before, seen them tear each other apart in a frenzy of instinctual, passionate violence. I’d known it could only be seconds before one of them would make a move - a twitch of a tail, a flicker of an ear - and set off an alarm in the other:

Now. 

This was the way he and I look at each other, like two of a kind, bare-faced for the clear. We both know only one of us will get to it first, only one can top the other. I want to slide my foot back; that would give me extra momentum and carry me further. But just like I’m keeping my feet from entering a more effective stance, he still hasn’t raised his hands into the protective position he really wants to. We stay like this for a while, for now both aware that in a few moments, one of us will be...ended. He could try speaking to me, or I him, but it would change nothing, only delay everything. Silence buzzes like the heat between fireworks and the sky. 

An exhale. A sign. 

Shit, I’m slower. He gets to the floor, crawling and scrabbling like something wild, something primal. I don’t know exactly how I get there; on my knees, on my feet or perhaps I flung myself through the air. But I get there. First. His face is like mine the first day I hurt myself to see if I could feel, which, yes, I could, just like anyone. This time, neither of us pause. He knows his last chance is to appeal to my better nature and bare his neck for me. What he doesn’t know is that my better nature is my front-runner; the me I am showing him now is the best me I have. Fortunately for him, as front-runner, I’m also a crowd pleaser. Blood is bayed for. 

I shall not disappoint you.

There can only be a few seconds between the moment I wrapped my hand around it and the second his throat opens all over my hands in answer to the question. Does a knife taste as good as what it can create? No answer of course. Perhaps the flavour should have been savoured longer. The starving man eats a meal and tastes nothing. The rich man eats a meal and tastes the money, time and effort it took to prepare it. That is not to say that a rich man appreciates taste more than a starving one, merely that the latter values his own life and the continuance thereof over the frivolities it could contain if only his fortune were reversed.

What I end is not life, but lifelessness.

 


End file.
